


would it really kill you if we kissed?

by synchronysymphony



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cars, M/M, grantaire is a mechanic, phone fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 22:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14246781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronysymphony/pseuds/synchronysymphony
Summary: Enjolras has a malfunctioning car. Grantaire has an auto shop.





	would it really kill you if we kissed?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fillertexted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fillertexted/gifts).



> For one of the Enjolrases in my life! Happy late birthday, my dear ♥♥♥

“Shit.”  
Enjolras slams his hand down on the top of his steering wheel, hoping irrationally that the movement will jolt his car back into normalcy once again. This is the third time he’s stalled on the trafficky freeway, and he’s sick of it.  
“Come on, come on.” Ignoring the honks of the people behind him, Enjolras pushes in the clutch and puts the car back in first gear to start it. “You’re going to work for me, aren’t you? You’re going to be nice?”  
Evidently, his car is not going to be nice. With a groan and a thud, the engine comes to life, slowly beginning to chug along down the road, much slower than Enjolras— or the people behind him— would like. Enjolras winces at the struggle sounds of the engine as it crawls along.  
“Sorry, sorry.”  
The Camry behind him honks again. Enjolras grits his teeth, trying his best not to turn around and flip them off. Honestly, don’t people have any sympathy? Obviously, he wouldn’t be going 30 on the freeway if he could help it. He shifts into fourth, hoping the higher gear will cut down on some of the lugging. That seems to be his only recourse nowadays. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to work, because the lugging is now, if anything, worse than before.  
“Ah, shit.”  
With a grumble and a whine, the car slows to a bug’s pace, engine making a loud, unpleasant sound, and Enjolras bangs on the steering wheel again, frustrated. Why is this happening to him? He has places to be. Annoyed, he revs up the engine, watching the tachometer needle soar. It’s loud, but it doesn’t make the car move any faster, and as the car creeps forward like a turtle with a cold, he groans. This is absolutely insupportable.  
Again, the Camry honks, and totally fed up, Enjolras bears down on the gas pedal, wanting to get away from the obvious asshole behind him. There’s only one thing he can do now, and that’s admit defeat.  
It’s time for him to find a garage.  
—  
Enjolras paces back and forth in the lobby of Musichetta’s Auto Repair, not sure what to do. He’d managed to get to the place and park, and had walked in, expecting someone to greet him and tell him what to do. Unfortunately, the reception desk had been empty, and now he’s in a sort of waiting-room limbo, wondering if he should have done something differently. Should he have approached the people outside? But they looked busy. He wouldn’t want to impose.  
Still, this is confusing. Who would have thought going to the garage would be so complicated? He’s never done something like this before, only gotten his oil changed at the Jiffy Lube down the street. This is completely different, and he’s out of his depth.  
He’s just about to give up and sit down to wait for someone to appear so he can beg them for help, when the door opens, bell jingling merrily, and there’s a strong, gruff bass voice from the doorway.  
“Can I help you?”  
Enjolras looks up, ready to reply, but at this point, his head gives out. The owner of this (extremely gorgeous) voice is… well. Words can’t describe him. He’s tall and muscular, probably just about as big as Bahorel, with curly dark hair and piercing green eyes that seem to radiate with warmth. He’s got a little dimple on the side when he smiles— smirks, rather— which gives him a mischievous look, but more than that, he’s graceful. He looks like he could be a dancer, or a martial artist; even the way he stands is elegant. He’s chosen to wear a plain white T-shirt instead of the usual jumpsuit that Enjolras has seen on every other mechanic, and it’s stained with grease and just a little too small, but he makes it look so good that Enjolras’s mouth goes dry. In a word, he’s striking. Not conventionally attractive, no, but definitely interesting. And Enjolras likes interesting.  
“Hello,” he manages. “Um, I’m here about my car.”  
“That’s generally what people come here for, yes.” The man grins. “What do you need?”  
“Um, I’m not sure. Well…” Enjolras thinks about it. “It’s the… clutch? Maybe? I seem to stall a lot, and there’s a lot of lugging, even in the higher gears, so…”  
“You got a manual?” The man raises an eyebrow, seemingly impressed. “Good for you. What model?”  
“BMW. Uh… it’s red. And loud.”  
“Six-series?”  
“I don’t… know?”  
“Okay.” The man smiles at him, bright as anything. “Come on, then, let’s have a look.”  
Enjolras follows the man outside, struggling to keep up with his long strides. “So, I’m Enjolras,” he offers after a few seconds of silence which probably isn’t as awkward as he thinks it is. The man turns to him with that ready smile.  
“I’m Grantaire. Nice to meet you.”  
“Nice to meet you, too.”  
Grantaire winks at him. “I guess I got lucky coming back from lunch early.”  
“What?”  
“Because now I get to help you.”  
Oh! Is he flirting? Enjolras wouldn’t mind that at all. Or is he just being nice? To be on the safe side, Enjolras decides not to stand up tall and kiss him. That might cause just a few problems.  
“I’m the lucky one, really,” he says instead.  
Grantaire grins at him, and it’s gorgeous and dimpled and dreamy, but then he seems to shake himself, and it’s back to business again. “So, Enjolras, which one of these beauties is yours?”  
Enjolras looks around, realizing they’re already in the parking lot. He points to his bright-red beemer, parked slightly crooked and nose-in. “There.”  
Grantaire whistles. “An M3. Gorgeous.”  
“Her name is Marianne,” Enjolras says, and immediately feels ridiculous. Why is he sharing that, anyway? This is a garage, not a vet clinic.  
But Grantaire nods as if this makes perfect sense, and goes over to inspect Marianne more closely. “Hello, madame,” he says. “What’s ailing you?” Turning to Enjolras, he holds his hand out for the key. “If it’s okay with you, I can pull into the garage there and have a look?”  
Enjolras presses the key into his hand, secretly thrilling at the tinge of contact when their fingers brush. “Should I just follow you?”  
“Sure. That way I get to enjoy your company.” Grantaire grins once again, then unlocks the door and gets in. He pushes the seat all the way back, looking incongruously large in the small space, and starts the engine. “See ya inside.”  
“Yeah,” Enjolras agrees, then realizes how inadequate his response was as Grantaire backs up and turns around to head into the garage.  
Enjolras reaches the garage just as Grantaire is stepping out of the car. He waves. “Hey.”  
Grantaire opens his arms expansively. “Welcome to my kingdom.”  
“It’s amazing,” Enjolras says, and there’s nothing but honesty there because it really is amazing. He doesn’t know what most of the things here even are, let alone how they might work to fix up a car. “How do you know what tools to use?” he asks. “I mean, there are so many of them.”  
Grantaire laughs. “It’s not so bad. I use most of them so often that it’s just second nature by now.”  
“That’s incredible.”  
“Not really, just my job.” Grantaire rubs the back of his neck, self-conscious, but he looks pleased. “So, Enjolras, what do you do? Are you in high school?”  
“College,” Enjolras sighs. He knows he looks young; he’s gotten this all his life. “I go to UCLA.”  
“Really? My sister went there.”  
“Oh, that’s so cool! What did she study?”  
“Computer engineering.” There’s obvious pride in Grantaire’s voice, rich and warm. “She always was the smart one in the family.”  
“You’re smart, too. I can tell.”  
“Not really. I didn’t even bother applying for college. But it’s okay. I make up for it in other ways.”  
“Academia isn’t the only measure of intelligence,” Enjolras argues. “Like you said, you make up for it in other ways, so you’re smart. And no amount of college education— or lack thereof— can change that.”  
Grantaire looks up from inspecting the car. There’s an obvious challenge in his eyes now, but they’re glittering like he’s found something he’s been looking for.  
“So you think academia isn’t a fair measure of intelligence?”  
“No, I don’t.”  
“Then, why has it achieved such status?”  
Enjolras knows this one. “Society. It’s enforced a fallacious standard of excellence, defining intelligence in an overly-strict and rudimentary sense.”  
“But isn’t intelligence defined by people, and thus, by society? It’s not an objective concept, but a subjective one.”  
“True, but subjectivity doesn’t necessitate a narrow definition shared only by the elite.”  
“I see. So you argue that your own definition of intelligence is somehow more salient than society’s.”  
What is this? Somehow, Enjolras feels a spark in his chest that hasn’t been there in a long time. It’s bright, electrifying, filling him with buzzing energy from the tips of his hair to the tops of his toes. He tries, and fails, to suppress a smile.  
“My definition is shared by plenty of people. Just not the majority.”  
Grantaire is smiling, too. His eyes dance. “If you believe you and your peerless minority to be in the right, disavowing all other opinion, doesn’t that make you the elitist?”  
“Only in the sense of valuing my opinion over others, but if you consider the privilege associated with elitism in its very definition...”  
“I was joking,” Grantaire says, before he can go on. “You’re cute, though. So earnest.”  
“And you’re argumentative.”  
Grantaire smiles, recognizing the compliment as such. “Only with good debate partners.”  
“And do I qualify?”  
“I’m not sure. I think I’ll have to debate with you a little more.”  
Enjolras finally recognizes the feeling burning through him. It’s exhilaration, like when he’s writing an essay, ideas flowing so quickly through his head that his fingers have no hope of catching up, even flying over the keyboard as they are. It’s the swoop of a rollercoaster, the rush of air from an open car window, the icy blue taste of cold water on a blazing summer day. It’s flying, soaring, sailing over the mundane trivialities of another humdrum experience. And Grantaire is the cause of all of it.  
Can people fall in love so fast?  
“I think I know what’s wrong with your car,” says Grantaire, breaking Enjolras out of his reverie. Courteously, he waits for Enjolras to shake himself and stop staring, moonstruck, before he goes on. “You were right, it’s the clutch. I’ll need to replace it.”  
Enjolras nods, trusting him implicitly. “You’re the boss.”  
“Also, I can’t guarantee that I won’t find other issues while I’m working. Your car is beautiful, but it probably hasn’t been to the garage for awhile, right?”  
“Well... no.”  
“That’s what I thought. I’ll take a look and see if there are any major problems that I could fix.”  
With this, he goes around to the front of the car and pops the hood. Enjolras walks over, too, wanting to see inside. It’s confusing, all these twisting pipes and valves, and things that look like they might explode, given half the chance.  
“What is all this?” he asks.  
“Well, this would be the engine,” Grantaire says, pointing to the larger block-like contraption near the center. “It’s got six cylinders, which is standard for an M3.”  
“Oh.” Enjolras looks at the engine. It’s amazing how so much power can be contained in such a small volume. “Is that good?”  
“Well, they’re what make your engine go. So if you’ve got six of them, yeah, I’d say that’s pretty good.”  
Enjolras nods, filing away this information. “What about that? What is it?”  
“That’s the coolant tank. It contains the liquid that keeps your car from overheating.”  
“And that? Oh—“ Enjolras stops, biting his lip. “I’m sorry, you’re trying to work. I shouldn’t interfere”  
“It’s okay,” says Grantaire. “I like explaining things, especially to people who are actually curious.”  
The excited fizz is back in Enjolras’s chest (or maybe it never really left). He bounces on his toes. “Then, can I watch? I won’t distract you, I promise!”  
“You want to?”  
“Yeah! Maybe I can learn something.”  
“Okay.” Grantaire’s lips curve up. There’s a look on his face that Enjolras can’t really figure out, but at least he looks happy, so that’s an encouraging sign. He turns back to the car, but not so much that he can’t shoot Enjolras a sparkling-eyed look. “Fair warning, I like to talk while I work.”  
“Even better.”  
Grantaire nods, looking pleased, and settles in to work on the car. Enjolras fetches an empty plastic bucket, turns it over, and perches on it to sit and watch. He’s ready for a thoroughly educational— and enjoyable— afternoon.  
—  
Grantaire really does like to talk while he works. When he’s not explaining what he’s doing with the car, he’s rambling on about random topics, and when he’s not doing that, he’s trying his hardest to extract personal information from Enjolras. By the time the clutch is installed, he’s gotten practically his whole life story. Enjolras isn’t really sure how that happened, or how he ended up divulging his memoirs to a near-stranger, but he can’t bring himself to mind too much. Grantaire fosters trust somehow.  
“So what about you?” he asks, in a rare break in the conversation, while Grantaire is digging around under the hood of the car in search of who-knows-what. Grantaire looks up.  
“What about me?”  
“Well, what’s your story? I want to hear the Epic of Grantaire.”  
“It’s not so much an epic as a Greek tragedy,” Grantaire warns. “Are you sure you want to hear?”  
“I do.”  
“Well, okay. So, it all started here in Los Angeles...”  
Almost fifteen minutes later, Enjolras is well-versed in the Not-Epic of Grantaire. It’s true, it’s not really a happy story, but it’s fascinating, and Grantaire tells it with such wit and humor that it’s impossible not to be interested. He’s a born storyteller, that’s for sure.  
“And, fin,” he says, gesturing dramatically with a wrench. “Anything after that is in the future.”  
Enjolras applauds lightly. “Amazing! I can’t believe you really have a pilot’s license.”  
“Get me a plane, and I’ll fly you around sometime,” Grantaire offers.  
“That would be wonderful.”  
Grantaire smiles at him. It’s different from his slightly-impersonal friendly smiles of earlier; now it seems more close, more intimate. His eyes say he considers Enjolras a friend now, and Enjolras is inclined to agree. There’s a natural rapport here— it’s been a little more than two hours, and the conversation hasn’t so much as faltered. He smiles back at Grantaire, doing his best to make it flirtatious.  
“So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?”  
“Well, I get off work at five,” says Grantaire. “And then, I’m not sure.”  
Enjolras’s heart is hammering away in his chest. This is his chance to be smooth, and he’s going to take it, but heaven only knows whether or not his words will decide to come out right.  
“So, it sounds like you’re kinda free,” he says. Grantaire’s mouth quirks up at the corner.  
“Sure am.”  
“Then, is it— would you— I mean, I know a cool little bar near here. Would you like to get a drink with me after work?”  
Nailed it.  
Grantaire breaks out into a full-on smile now, bright like a sunbeam. “I’d like that,” he says.  
“Me too.” Enjolras dares to reach out to touch him on the arm, but then, not knowing exactly what to do, ends up going to shake his hand. “Uh— that’s decided, then.”  
“Goddamn, you’re cute.” Grantaire squeezes his hand in his own rough, calloused one, a firm, reassuring pressure. “Do you wanna wait here until five? It won’t be much more.”  
“Really? Is that okay?”  
“Of course.”  
“Then, I’d love to.” Reluctantly, Enjolras lets Grantaire’s hand drop from his own, though not before giving it one last squeeze. He skips over to his bucket and settles down. “What are you going to do now?”  
“Well, I have a 91 Civic that needs a new engine, and Chetta so happened to find one in a scrap yard, so I’ll probably start on that.”  
“Why a scrap yard?” Enjolras wants to know. “Won’t it be broken?”  
“Not this one. Chetta has a good eye. It’s good that she does, too, because they don’t make engines for 91 Civics anymore. Anytime you need a repair, you have to go looking around.”  
“Oh.” Enjolras sits, thinking about this. Being a mechanic is serious business. It must be so difficult to have to go hunting all over for parts, like some kind of questing video game character. It seems stressful, but Enjolras can’t help thinking it’s pretty cool. “You’re like a pirate,” he says.  
“A pirate?”  
“Yeah! You have to go searching to find the right materials, and you have to make sure they’re legit, and you have to steal them—“  
“What? No, we don’t.”  
“Oh. Well, that makes more sense.”  
Grantaire laughs at him. It’s not a mean laugh, though, just warm, and it makes something sweet bubble up in Enjolras’s chest. He bounces up and down on his bucket.  
“How do you install an engine?”  
“I’ll show you. Or at least,” Grantaire turns and looks up at the clock on the wall, “I’ll start showing you.”  
“Does it take a long time?”  
“Not really. I’ll probably be able to get it done within two days.”  
That seems like a long time, but Enjolras doesn’t push the point. He watches as Grantaire goes out to the parking lot behind the garage and drives in a beat-up looking blue car, flat and low to the ground, with a hatch-back and no license plates. It looks like it could blow over in a slight breeze, but it must be sturdier than it seems if it’s lasted this long. Enjolras wonders if Marianne will look like that someday.  
“It’s cute,” he says, as Grantaire gets out and comes around to the front, ready to pop the hood. Grantaire nods.  
“Yeah, she’s a beauty. Still going strong after all these years.”  
“She’s older than I am,” Enjolras realizes. Somehow, the thought is incredible. He comes over to the car, wanting to see it up close. “How did you drive it if there’s no engine? Is that possible?”  
“No, that’s not possible. There’s an engine in there, it just barely works. This poor thing would never be able to make it on the freeway.”  
“I see.”  
Grantaire pops the hood and looks down into it. He grimaces. “I have my work cut out for me here, I guess.”  
“Is it bad?”  
“I haven’t checked it out, but I’d say it’s pretty bad. Now, how bad, exactly... that’s what we’re going to find out.” He straightens up, leaning back to crack his knuckles. “Let’s do this.”  
Enjolras wanders back to his bucket, not wanting to be in the way. Still, he’s paying rapt attention, watching every move that Grantaire makes.  
It’s fascinating. Grantaire makes it seem like an art form, gracefully moving around the car to check things that Enjolras didn’t even know existed, pausing in his work to select a certain tool or piece of equipment, and sometimes, when Enjolras is really lucky, stopping to take a drink from his water bottle, head thrown back and glorious throat on full display as he swallows. He’s gorgeous, that’s what he is, nothing short of beautiful.  
There’s a pleasant fluttery feeling in Enjolras’s stomach, and he feels warm all over, as if he’s sitting in the sun. He thinks he could sit and watch forever. Why don’t people televise car mechanics? A program like that would probably get a lot of views. Or maybe it’s just Grantaire, so amazing and good at his job that he makes even the smallest tasks incredible.  
A blink of movement catches Enjolras’s eye, and he looks up to see Grantaire stretching, muscled arms above his head, shirt pulled up, and perfectly toned stomach peeking out in the gap between the hem and his low-slung jeans. Enjolras’s jaw actually drops. He’s not sure when he’s ever seen such a beautiful sight in his life.  
“Hhhhh,” he says intelligently.  
Grantaire turns to look at him, arms still in the air. “What’s that?”  
“You— you’re a very attractive fellow,” Enjolras gets out, then immediately regrets everything in life, ever. “Sorry,” he says. “That was inappropriate.”  
Grantaire comes towards him. He’s grinning cheekily now. “Maybe. But I like inappropriate.”  
Does he now. Enjolras gets up off his bucket and meets him halfway, purposefully swaying his hips as he walks. He doesn’t flirt a lot, and he’s not really good at it, but he knows the basics, at least. He’s been friends with Courfeyrac long enough for that.  
“Me too,” he says. “And also, I like you.”  
...Okay, so maybe it’s a little less than the basics.  
Amazingly, though, Grantaire still seems affected. His pupils dilate, and his teeth catch on his lower lip, maybe on purpose, because it definitely draws Enjolras’s attention. He leans down, closer, closer, until Enjolras can practically feel his soft breath, and it’s perfect, it’s blissful, it feels so right, more right than anything in the world... but just when it seems like he’s about to close the distance between them, he pulls back.  
“I’m— I’m still on the clock.”  
Enjolras tries not to be disappointed. Of course he wouldn’t want Grantaire to get in trouble at work, especially because of him. But that doesn’t mean he can’t look forward to later.  
“How much longer?” he asks.  
“Just, uh. Twenty minutes?”  
“I’ll be waiting.”  
Enjolras goes back to sit on his bucket. Grantaire looks around the workshop several times, as if he’s not really seeing his surroundings. He scratches his hair and rubs at his face, and very studiously makes sure not to look in Enjolras’s direction. Enjolras thinks it’s adorable.  
“Do your best!” he calls.  
Grantaire startles, but when he looks at Enjolras, he’s smiling. “Thank you!”  
“You got this!”  
“I got this!”  
Grantaire goes back to work on the car. He’s not very efficient; Enjolras can tell that his mind is elsewhere. But at least he tries, and by the time 5:00 rolls around, he’s gotten a substantial start on taking out the old engine. He wipes his hands on his pants, leaving smudges of grease, and stretches again. Enjolras stands up, watching him.  
“You’re done?”  
“I’m done.”  
“Good.” Enjolras steps into his space, taking hold of one grease-stained hand and interlacing their fingers together. He smiles up at Grantaire’s expression— sort of a cross between awestruck and coquettish. “Do you wanna get out of here?”  
“I’d like nothing better. Uh— let me just get my stuff?”  
Enjolras nods and happily follows Grantaire to the office so he can collect his things and wash up. He offers some hand sanitizer to Enjolras, too.  
“Sorry, I got you dirty.”  
“It’s okay,” Enjolras says, resisting the urge to say something stupid like /you could get me dirty anytime./ He cleans himself off, looking curiously around the office. “What’s that?”  
Grantaire follows his gaze to a large tarp-covered object in the corner of the room. “Oh, that’s our bookcase.”  
“Can I see?”  
“Sure.”  
Enjolras skips over to the bookcase and pulls aside the tarp to have a look. A variety of titles meets his eyes, some classic lit, some philosophy (probably both Grantaire’s), some non-fiction and some standard novels. There’s also a lot of specialized books that Enjolras has no hope of understanding, but he runs his finger reverently along the spines anyway.  
“This is so cool.”  
“Yeah, well. Sometimes we get bored here.”  
“Wow. I wish my job had a mini library.”  
“Where do you work, anyway?” asks Grantaire, as they leave the office, hand-in-hand. “I don’t think I asked.”  
Enjolras makes a face. “Security.”  
“Wait, really?”  
“Unfortunately, yes.”  
“But... you?”  
“What about me?”  
Grantaire gestures at him with his free hand. “You’re tiny! How would you secure anything?”  
“Oh well, I have a secret technique,” Enjolras says seriously. “First, I stare down the person. Then, I reach into my pocket. Then... I take out my phone and call Feuilly.”  
Grantaire laughs. It sounds like a car engine. “Who’s Feuilly?”  
“Only the most amazing person in this world. He’s smart and caring and talented and hardworking and basically perfect.”  
“That’s so sweet. He sounds super cool.”  
“He is. Once he saved me from getting stabbed.”  
“What?”  
“I’ll tell you at the bar,” Enjolras promises. “In the meantime, do you want to drive, or shall I?”  
“Can I? I really really want to drive your car.”  
“Sure thing.” Enjolras hands over the keys and goes around to get into the passenger seat. As he does so, he regrets not opening the door for Grantaire. That would have been so chivalrous. Oh well. He’ll do that next time.  
“Do you want to choose the music?” he asks once they’re both inside. Grantaire takes the offered aux cord and plugs his phone into it. He scrolls through, and finally decides on some strange-sounding song with a heavy bass and lots of electronic elements.  
“Here we go.”  
Enjolras tilts his head. “What is this?”  
“It’s called New Dorp, New York.”  
“You’re a dorp.”  
“No, you.”  
Enjolras laughs. It feels perfectly natural sitting here with Grantaire, almost like they’re reincarnated beings finally touching again, or two souls fated to meet, or some other pair of tropes that Courfeyrac, with all his fan-fiction knowledge, would know better than Enjolras. It’s hard to believe that they’ve never met before this.  
“I’m so glad I ended up in your shop,” he says.  
“Technically, it’s Musichetta’s,” Grantaire points out, but then, “I’m glad too. I’m pretty sure it was a miracle.” He turns to Enjolras and smiles with the side of his mouth, eyes alight with affection. “Just like you.”  
It’s so cute. Enjolras wants to climb over the gearshift and into his lap, small space be damned.  
“Do you believe in miracles?” he asks.  
“I try not to believe too much in anything.” Grantaire laughs, somewhat self-consciously. “People call me cynical all the time, but that’s not really it. I’m a skeptic more than anything else.”  
“So you won’t deny nor confirm anything?”  
“That’s about it, yeah.”  
“You remind me a bit of my best friend,” Enjolras says musingly. “‘Ferre doesn’t necessarily believe in everything, either, but he believes whole-heartedly in possibilities.”  
“So he wouldn’t deny the existence of, like... aliens?”  
“No way. He loves aliens.”  
“He sounds cool. I think we’d get along well.”  
“I think you would, too. You’re both so smart. You know, I hope you can meet him soon!”  
“Me too.” Grantaire smiles again, but now there’s an edge of anxiety behind it, as if he’s suddenly felt a cold wind blow down his back. “That is, if you want to keep me around long enough for that.”  
Ostensibly, he’s joking, but Enjolras can see that he’s really worried, and he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t put those fears to rest. He is the king of taking jokes too seriously, after all.  
“I do want that— to keep you around, I mean— um, if that’s something you would like,” he says, rather uncharacteristically ineloquently. “Like, you’re super cool, and I want to get to know you better and better, so...”  
“Ah.” Grantaire’s face goes so red that Enjolras can see it even in the dimness of the car. “Y-you, I mean— me too. I want to get to know you better, too.”  
“I’m glad.” Enjolras is about to segue into the actual getting-to-know-each-other part by asking about Grantaire’s favorite color, or number, or Supreme Court case, but before he can, Grantaire shakes himself as if he’s waking up from a dream, and grabs the steering wheel.  
“So! Where am I going?”  
Enjolras laughs, realizing that they’ve just been sitting in the parking lot this whole time. “Let me pull it up on my phone,” he says. “I’m terrible with directions.”  
Now it’s Grantaire’s turn to laugh, as Enjolras opens Waze and sets the address. “Haven’t you been to this place before?”  
“Yeah, but not from here. It’s sad, I could get lost in my own backyard if I wasn’t paying attention.”  
“Fair enough.” Grantaire takes the phone and looks at the map before putting the phone up into its holder on the AC vent. “Okay, let’s go.”  
Enjolras knows it isn’t something to be particularly impressed about, especially because the GPS is right there, but he can’t help but admire Grantaire’s ability to navigate. The map doesn’t even have to reroute itself once.  
“You’re so cool,” he says as they pull into the Corinth’s parking lot. Grantaire pauses in the middle of unstrapping his seatbelt.  
“Really?”  
“Yeah, for a lot of reasons. But right now, because you’re so good at navigating.”  
Grantaire bursts out laughing. “Enjolras, it was literally five miles.”  
“A cool five miles.”  
“You’re so fucking cute.” Grantaire leans in close enough that Enjolras can smell his cologne, something musky and rich and delicious. Almost shyly, he lifts one hand and cups Enjolras’s face. “And you’re beautiful.”  
“You are too,” Enjolras stammers out, heart pounding away in his chest. He covers Grantaire’s hand with his own, squeezing lightly on the rough fingers. Grantaire gasps, just a tiny, inadvertent sound, and moves in even closer.  
“Can I...?”  
He doesn’t have to ask twice.  
Contrary to popular opinion, Enjolras isn’t made of marble. He feels, and breathes, and vibrates with passion for everything good and beautiful in the world. His heart, soft as few know it can be, beats for more than revolution, and his soul, more human than angel, is tempered by fiery love. He lives, lives passionately. And right now, he’s never felt more passionate or more alive.  
He winds his hand into Grantaire’s hair, pulling him closer to deepen their kiss, and then hums in pleased surprise as Grantaire not only allows it, but gives back and bites down on his lower lip, sharp and precise. He hums in satisfaction as Enjolras squirms against him, trying to press as close as possible.  
“You like that?”  
“Mhm.” Enjolras triés to capture his mouth again, but before he can, Grantaire is kissing down his throat, leaving little love bites in his wake.  
“You’re beautiful,” he keeps saying against Enjolras’s neck. “You’re perfect, you’re gorgeous, you’re amazing. I can’t believe you’re really here with me.”  
It’s almost too much, Enjolras thinks hazily, tangling his fingers in Grantaire’s hair to keep him where he is. It’s too hot, too close, too unbearably good, and it’s been forever since he’s felt like this, but he can’t imagine not feeling like this, because it’s overwhelming, it’s perfect, and he thinks he could melt.  
“Stay here,” he manages, as Grantaire sucks a bruise just under his pulse-point. Grantaire hums against him.  
“I’m not going anywhere, baby.”  
“Good. That’s— that’s good. Just...”  
Now Grantaire laughs, a rich, throaty chuckle that Enjolras can feel rumbling in his chest. “You’re adorable. I can’t wait to see what you’re like when we have more room, and we— wait.“  
Abruptly, he stops, lifting his head. Enjolras whines at the loss of contact, and tries to lean in once again, but Grantaire evades him, and holds onto his chin with a strong, warm hand.  
“Wait just a second, angel.”  
Enjolras doesn’t want to wait a second. He wants Grantaire’s mouth on him again. He pouts out his lower lip in a way that he knows is appealing.  
“What’s the matter?”  
“Well, it’s— it’s— do you have to look at me like that?”  
“Like what?”  
“Like— so cute and shit. How am I supposed to keep from kissing you when you make that face?”  
That’s sort of the point. Enjolras bats his eyelashes, knowing he looks like a doll this way. “You don’t have to.”  
“No, I do. I... Okay. How far do you want to go with this?”  
Really, they’re going to have the what-are-we talk now? Enjolras tugs on Grantaire’s hair sulkily. “However far you want.”  
“That’s not an answer.”  
Oh, all right, then. Enjolras takes his hands out of Grantaire’s hair, settles down more comfortably in his lap (when did he get in his lap, and how?), and looks up, no longer pouting. “I really like you.”  
“I really like you too. But I want to make sure we don’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”  
“I’m comfortable with a lot of things,” Enjolras tells him. “Like, not weird things. But lots of normal things. Sexy things.”  
“What sexy things?”  
Enjolras lowers his voice to a husky, velvety murmur, right in Grantaire’s ear. “You want me to tell you everything?”  
“No! Well, yes, but— shit. Just, are you thinking of coming home with me, or kissing for a bit, or even just talking? Because I’d be okay with anything, but I want to know where your boundaries are.”  
“Well, since you want to lay it all out like that,” Enjolras sighs, though he’s not terribly put out, “yes, I want to come home with you. I’d like to stay the night, and make you breakfast in the morning. Well, I can’t really cook. But I’ll make you coffee. Anyway, yes. I want to be with you like that.”  
“Really?”  
“Yeah, I promise. And I want more than that, too. I want to take you on dates and buy you flowers and let you drive my car.”  
“I,” says Grantaire, and leaves it at that. Enjolras looks up at him.  
“Too much?”  
“No, no. Not at all. I’m just— I’m so in awe that you would want that with me. You’re so amazing and perfect, and I’m, well. This isn’t the time for that.”  
“No, tell me. What is it?”  
Grantaire laughs self-consciously. He rubs his ear with the hand that’s not holding Enjolras. “Well, you know. It’s just... I’m kind of a shitty person, so...”  
“What? No you’re not. You’re an amazing person. Please don’t think you’re unworthy of me or anything; I really don’t want that. You’re you, and that’s what matters to me.”  
“But...”  
“Yeah?”  
“I’m super bad, I’m telling you. Mental illness, addiction, weird feuds with criminals, you name it. I’m a mess. And I wouldn’t want to drag you down with me.”  
Enjolras scoffs, almost affronted. “You wouldn’t drag me down. Do you think that the things you just named make you a bad person?”  
“Well, no, but...”  
“Right. You’re a good person, and I want to be with you, if that’s something you want too. I know things won’t always be easy, but that’s okay. They don’t have to be. Just as long as we’re together, that’s what matters.”  
“Okay.” Grantaire smiles at him, and there’s no hesitation in his eyes. “Sorry, I got a little insecure for a second, but you’re right. I might have my issues, but we can work with those. Plus, I’m sure you have your issues, too.”  
“I really do.”  
“See? It’s perfect. We’re both sort of messy, and that’s okay.”  
Enjolras smiles up at him, already feeling the warmth of affection curling through his body. “We can make this work.”  
“We definitely can.”  
“So,” Enjolras tugs at a lock of Grantaire’s hair, half-teasingly, “now can we get back to kissing?”  
—  
Several drinks, two cigarettes (smoked by Grantaire), and a shared container of Chinese takeout later, Enjolras finds himself in Grantaire’s apartment, settled cozily on the bed. He’s still clothed for now, but with the way things are going, he’s pretty sure that won’t last. Grantaire is holding him on his lap and kissing his neck, and there’s soft music playing from his phone, and the mood is so romantic and velvety that he wonders in the back of his mind if he’s unconsciously being filmed for a movie. He takes one hand from where it’s buried in Grantaire’s hair and lifts it up to caress his stubble-worn cheek.  
“You’re beautiful.”  
“Don’t make fun of me.”  
“I’m not. You really are beautiful.”  
Grantaire scoffs, though he doesn’t look particularly upset. “As if. I’m probably one of the ugliest motherfuckers on the planet.”  
“You’re not traditionally pretty, no,” says Enjolras. “But you’re beautiful. I love how you look, and could look at you forever.”  
“Well, right back at you.” Grantaire’s voice sounds odd and choked-up. He runs his hand back and forth between Enjolras’s shoulder-blades. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as gorgeous as you. Both in the conventional and the unconventional senses.”  
“Really?”  
“Yeah. Have you seen yourself? You’re ethereal.”  
Enjolras doesn’t think he’s that special, but the compliment is nice, and he feels a sudden burst of affection so strong that he has to snuggle up close and bury his face in Grantaire’s neck. He’s a little embarrassed, too. Even though he gets complimented on his appearance all the time, Grantaire seems to really mean it, seems to be saying it just because he wants him to know, not because he thinks it will make him take his clothes off.  
“You’re so good to me,” he says. Grantaire runs a hand through his hair, petting him.  
“I haven’t even done anything.”  
“You’re yourself. That’s enough.”  
“Is it?”  
“It is. I promise.”  
For a second, Grantaire doesn’t say anything, and Enjolras is worried he’s overstepped his boundaries, but then he looks at his face, and realizes he’s just overcome with emotion. It’s really sweet, and makes Enjolras’s heart clench in his chest.  
“Hey,” he says. “Do you just wanna cuddle and talk?”  
“I really do,” Grantaire tells him. “I mean, I know we could have fun together, but I’d rather get to know you. So, tell me. What’s your favorite Supreme Court case?”  
Enjolras can’t hold back a surprised, delighted laugh. “Are you literally perfect?”  
“Hell yeah I am.”  
“I’m just... anyway, it’s Gideon v Wainwright. I really think it was important.”  
“A watershed victory for defendants everywhere, indeed.”  
“You know it?”  
“Of course.”  
“Grantaire,” says Enjolras, very seriously. Grantaire looks at him, the smile sliding off his face in apprehension.  
“Yes, Enjolras?”  
“Will you go out with me?”  
The smile returns in full force. Enjolras thinks dizzily that Grantaire could light up all of Wilshire Boulevard with it. He delicately taps him on the nose.  
“Well?”  
“Yes,” says Grantaire immediately, though not before laughing a little bit. “You booped my nose, holy shit you are cute. Anyway, yes. I would love to go out with you.”  
“I’m so glad.”  
Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire’s neck and snuggles in close. He feels like he might forget to breathe if he doesn’t remind himself, because he’s too happy to function correctly. It’s much too early to say anything very sappy, but he knows, sure as anything, that the day is coming soon when they can proclaim their love for one another. He and Grantaire fit together like stars in a constellation.  
“Hey,” he says. Grantaire hums, a deep burr that Enjolras can feel in his chest.  
“Yeah?”  
“You drive me crazy with love.”  
Grantaire laughs, and Enjolras can feel that, too. It’s nice. “I could never get tired of you.”  
“You really rev my engines.”  
“You do this really wheel.”  
“I do have a talent for steering our conversation in a good direction.”  
By now, they’re both laughing too hard to continue. Grantaire takes Enjolras’s face in one hand and kisses him, not scandalously, just enough to show how enamored he is.  
“This is the luckiest day of my life.”  
“I think I’m pretty lucky, too,” Enjolras tells him. “I’m so glad Marianne decided to break down.”  
“Me too. It’s a blessing in disguise.”  
Enjolras climbs off Grantaire’s lap and lies down at his side. Taking the hint, Grantaire lies down, too. He picks Enjolras up as easily as anything, and settles him so that his head is resting on his chest. Enjolras smiles into his shirt, feeling his heartbeat against his cheek.  
“This is perfect.”  
“I’m glad.”  
Grantaire kisses him on top of the head, and he hums, pleased. Today hasn’t gone anything like he expected it to, but it’s wonderful, and he wouldn’t trade a moment of it for anything, broken-down car included. As Grantaire starts to play with his hair, humming softly and soothingly, he closes his eyes, so full of contentment that he thinks it might come seeping out of him. This, he thinks, is the start of something truly beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> title from [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oI-BsWbIg4)  
> [tumblr](http://synchronysymphony.tumblr.com)


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